“Oh shucks! Then you’ll be here all winter,” declared the man, with a laugh. “There’s no mystery of that mill except what old Wallace makes himself. He’s a little cracked in his upper story, I think.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” admitted Tom. “But, all the same, I think there’s something in it, after all, and we’re going to have another try at it, some day.”
They went rowing out on the lake after the teamster had left, taking their letters with him. It was small pleasure in the heavy skiff they had confiscated, but they were not out for pleasure just then—they were looking for the motorboat.
They covered several miles of lake shore, but saw no sign of the Tag, and only gave up when it was evident that they would not get back to camp before dark unless they hurried.
The next day the search was just as unsuccessful, and for several more they kept up the hunt. They saw no sign of either Mr. Skeel, the two cronies, or the hermit.
“Well, I give up,” remarked Tom, despondently, one afternoon. “I don’t believe we’ll ever get that boat back.”
“It does begin to look a little dubious,” remarked Jack. “Still, luck may turn at the last minute. Where you going?” he asked, as he saw his chum start toward the forest back of the camp.
“Oh, just to take a walk. Anybody want to come?”
“Not for mine,” answered Jack. “I’m just going to be lazy until supper time.”